


even a thing with wings is seldom free

by heatdeath (aphelion)



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: But Mostly Smut, But there's sexual contact between Prompto and the other boys, Chloroform, Dubious Consent, M/M, Mostly Noctis/Prompto, Rape Fantasy, Rape/Non-con Elements, Somnophilia, Sort of sad, kidnapping fantasy, not a threesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-07
Updated: 2019-03-07
Packaged: 2019-11-13 04:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18024758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphelion/pseuds/heatdeath
Summary: Noctis doesn't tell them what Prompto did when he first came to him. Or how he sounded sort of desperate on that day when he said, "I just want something to happen—"He doesn't think he was talking about life in the city.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The kidnapping here is consensual, but consent for the other things that happen within that context is dubious. How much was actually agreed to up front was left ambiguous on purpose, so be warned.
> 
> Chapters 2 & 3 are the Epilogue and Prologue, respectively.

Six o'clock, the sky a heavy, gray canopy, the rain beats down. It bounces off the sidewalks and streets with a noisy patter, soaking the back of Prompto's shirt until it sticks to his shoulders. Every so often, he ducks under awnings to shake out his hoodie and push his dripping bangs back from his face. And then he steps out to be soaked through again. Rain cold on his skin, blurring his eyes. He raises a hand to his brow to peer through it, waiting for several minutes at a traffic light before crossing the street. Then he makes his way down the next alley, turns, and walks alongside the road until the sidewalk disappears. 

Beneath an overpass, his nose thick with the scent of asphalt and burnt rubber, he finds a moment's peace. He takes his phone from his pocket and checks the time, squinting down at the LCD. A car rumbles overhead. A few more minutes pass, during which he puts his phone away and shoves both hands (bone-white and freezing cold) into his pockets. He bounces his weight from heel to heel, rubbing his knees together. Takes his hands out of his pockets and shoves them between his thighs. 

He jerks his hands from between his legs when he hears the sound of a car coming down the street he's on, turns his head, waits, and looks away. With his phone out, he pretends to be preoccupied. So when the expensive-looking, ivory white car stops right before the overpass breaks out into open road again, he doesn't seem to notice at first. Why should he? Nothing ever happens, here. Eventually, though, he picks his head up, phone still out, and gets a good look at the stopped vehicle. It isn't familiar to him, and the windows are tinted so he can't see who's in the driver's seat. It's then that he notices his hands are beginning to sweat, smearing against the chassis of his phone. He turns it off and puts it away, rubs his hands on his pants to dry them, and then tucks them beneath his arms in an attempt to warm his fingers again. The sound of a car door opening interrupts him.

A man gets out of the passenger seat. It's a large man, six-foot-something, wearing a grey hoodie, a cap, a pair of sunglasses, and a paper breathing mask. Without looking at Prompto, he closes the car door and goes around to open the trunk. From here, Prompto can see that the upholstery is dark grey, but if there's anything else inside, it isn't visible. 

Prompto takes out his phone again. When he looks up, the man is standing right beside him. He jerks and drops it onto the ground— and hears the man laugh in a deep, husky sort of baritone before he grabs him by the arm. "C'mon," he says, like he does this sort of thing every day. _C'mon_ , he says, so casually Prompto almost can't believe it. He makes a little squeaking sound and tries to pull his arm from his grasp, tries to pull away. 

"Wait, what? What d'you think you're—"

He makes another undignified sound when a steel-toed boot crashes into his shin. He falls down face-first, arm wrenched, hissing his pain, while the man above him (silent for just a moment) clucks his tongue. Then he picks him up by the wrist and begins dragging him toward the car, toward the maw of the open trunk. _That's_ when he begins to struggle in earnest, clawing at the dirty street, twisting onto his stomach in an attempt to dig his knees into the ground, little stones and pebbles embedding themselves into the fabric of his jeans. When he actually manages to get some purchase, and the man trying to drag him begins to struggle, he drops his arm and turns around to dig a boot into his back. The air rushes from his lungs all at once. He wheezes as the near full weight of a two-hundred-something pound, fully grown man, is slowly deposited onto his lungs. Then the man takes his boot from his back and crouches down while he fights to catch his breath, reaching up to rap his knuckles against the back of the car. 

After a pause, the man in the driver's seat steps out. Prompto is rolled over onto his back to the sound of boots tapping against the pavement. His vision swims. The second man above him isn't as tall or as broad as the first, his hair fairer, build slim. He also wears a pair of sunglasses and a paper face mask, although he's gone without the hat. To make up for it, he's holding something his hands. Something that he doesn't notice until it's already too late. 

There's a tiny bottle clasped in his left hand, and using his right, he twists off the cap; tucked into his right hand, a folded handkerchief, plain white. He upturns the contents of the bottle into the handkerchief, closes the bottle, and pockets it. Then he crouches down and reaches out to lay the cloth and his hand over Prompto's nose and mouth.

Prompto makes a sound, as though to speak, inhaling the scent of the chemical all at once. His eyes roll into the back of his head to the sensation of fingers stroking across his cheek.

And then, unconscious, he's lifted into the back of the trunk, tied, and hidden beneath a heavy, brown blanket. The larger man walks back to pick up Prompto's phone. Then, the men return to the car, the engine rumbles to life, and they drive away.

\---

There's a sound vibrating through his head. It's a familiar sound, one he's heard enough times before to recognize, but it seems to have adopted some new quality. Some aspect that makes it difficult to place. It's then, struggling to recall, that Prompto realizes how badly his head hurts, and the rest of his memories follow along behind it, like beads on a bit of string. The cloth over his mouth, the chemical smell, the two men, the overpass, the rain. The sound: the car's engine, heard from the trunk instead of the cabin. He tries to stretch his arm to touch the top of the trunk, but finds he can't move it. Nor the other. There's something around his wrists, keeping them in place. The same material is tight around his ankles. But his hands and legs aren't bound together; he can bend his legs at the knee, he finds, and he can turn onto his back if he writhes, worm-like, to right himself. The movement tangles the blanket around his body, but rather than waste his time trying to get it off, he bends his legs and kicks the lid of the trunk. It makes a dull sound. So he kicks it again, and again, and again, both legs straining, muscles burning. It makes a racket, but if he jars it hard enough, he can probably get the trunk to pop—

Something changes. He doesn't notice what it is at first, until the popping sound of gravel reaches his ears. The idling engine stops entirely, and he stops kicking. Not a minute later, and he hears the latch on the trunk slip open, along with a rush of fresh, cool, air. He breathes in greedily, gasping beneath the blanket. And then the blanket is torn off, exposing him. It doesn't do much to help him see, because it's dark, and he can barely see the figures standing above him, but at least he can breathe.

They're silent for a while, watching him. It's hard to say what they see, or what they're thinking. And then they step away and turn their backs to him, and he can hear their voices, but the sound is too low to make out what they're saying. He pulls at the bonds behind his back, but only succeeds in chafing his wrists. When they return, one man takes him by the ankles, the other by the shoulders, and they roll him over onto his stomach. Then he's picked up by his restraints, lifted and turned until his back half is dangling out of the car. The man with the deeper voice asks, "Is there another length of rope in the back seat?" and his partner answers him with a sigh, "Let me check." The gravel crunches beneath his heels, and the car door opens with a soft sound. He can hear movement above his his head, and for a moment it distracts him from the movement behind him. A large hand snakes its way into the space between his lower half and the back of the car. There's a bit of familiar movement, and then the a tug on his jeans as his zipper is pulled free. He freezes, staring hard into the upholstery. The cushions squeak beneath the weight of someone climbing over them above his head, and his pants are pulled down his hips. Then, without any fanfare, the man behind him inserts a thick finger into his ass. It's damp with something, and cold— he makes a choked sound and finds another hand suddenly clamped down over the back of his neck. 

After that, he can't make any sound at all. Even when that single, probing finger pushes up to the last knuckle, easing in and out like this is some kind of foreplay. And then it's gone, leaves him wheezing, drooling on the fine upholstery beneath his cheek, which is beginning to rub his skin raw. Only for it to be replaced with something much (much) larger. He grimaces. Chokes on the spit in his throat, coughing beneath the weight of his hand as he's impaled. At first, that's the only sensation— like he's being torn in two. Not in any especially violent way, but methodically. Split down the middle how you might halve a stone fruit to get rid of the pit. His body jerks and tightens in response to the invasion, and then slowly becomes accustomed to it. And _then_ there's movement. The car door closes, and hips slap against his ass. He hears the other man saying, "Oh, you're doing this _now?_ " And the man who's fucking him laughs. It's a chest-deep rumble he can feel all the way down in his stomach. "Did you at least use a condom?" 

He doesn't hear the answer, but he doesn't need to hear it to know that's bare skin rubbing against his insides. The man with the soft voice makes an exasperated sound. But he doesn't hear him leave. He must stand there, watching them, the entire time. While he's choked out and fucked into from behind; while his cock slowly swells. It seems to go on for a while, until his body is sweat-slicked and shaking all over. And then he's abruptly emptied into without even a sound, and the man inside him pulls out. Cum leaks from his ass down the backs of his thighs, and he pants when his throat is released, although it sounds more like coughing. The soft-voiced man makes a sound of disgust. He hears the crunch of gravel beneath boots, but just one pair of boots. Then, the sound of a single car door opening and closing. A few minutes pass. And then someone sighs, and he's turned over onto his back.

It's an uncomfortable position, with his lower half still hanging from the trunk. The weight of his legs puts an unnatural amount of strain on his spine. But the man above him (not the man who fucked him, the skinnier one) doesn't seem to care when he wraps his fingers around his cock and begins to pump it. At first, it seems like he's doing it out of some manner of obligation, and Prompto can't find his voice to tell him that he doesn't need to. But then he realizes how stupid that is and quickly reevaluates his need to say anything. Instead, he watches with wide, fearful eyes, shirt plastered to the front of his chest and sticking to his skin beneath his arms, as the steady, pumping action dissolves into less overt attention. His balls are prodded and squeezed, his glans milked. Slimy, clear precum leaks from the tip of his cock and onto the man's fingers, which he seems to find undesirable, if his curled lip and wrinkled nose are anything to go by. Then he rubs the tip of his cock with his thumb, an intense, insistent, and focused action. His aching hips jerk, and jerk, and jerk again, and then, suddenly, his cock twitches and he cums. All over himself, semen splattering across his shirt, his face, his hair. 

His eyes watering, he make a miserable little sound. But rather than pause to offer any comfort, the man bundles him back into the trunk (pants still pushed down around his thighs), wipes his hand off on the blanket, and takes the little bottle back out of his pocket. The handkerchief joins too, and as he's placing the scrap of cloth over his mouth, he murmurs words for only him to hear.

"I'd be quiet this time, if I were you."

\---

But it's an unnecessary warning, in the end. When he arrives at his destination, he's still unconscious. 

The two men roll to a park, pop the trunk together, and silently check their target for any signs of injury. Then they roll him up into the blanket, and the taller of the two men hauls him over his shoulder. They walk from the car into the building they've parked next to, a several story complex with double doors in the front. Rather than take the front doors, they enter through one of many side entrances and walk up the stairs. On the seventh floor, they get off the stairs and turns into a different hallway. This time, they're confronted by several elevators. One of which they board and take up to the 46th floor.

The 46th floor is large and mostly empty, characterized by high-roofed, carpeted hallways and tall windows. They walk down one such hallway to another pair of double doors, which, this time, they enter. 

The room inside is the size of a smallish house. The ceiling is high and painted with an intricate mural. The furniture identifies the room as a bedroom. A fireplace with a settee arranged in front of it, flanked by two end tables; a love seat beneath a stained-glass window; on either side of the love seat, shelves filled with books. On the rightmost side of the room, a desk, wooden and lacquered, gathering dust; on the leftmost side of the room, another, taller set of shelves with books. The centerpiece of the room is the large, canopied bed draped with velvet sheets, iridescent black. On the bed is where they deposit their quarry. 

The sound of boots thudding against the floor is what causes the fourth man in the room to take notice. His head jerks up from where he had been dozing in front of the fireplace, and he twists his neck around to look at where the sound is coming from. Unlike the other men, he isn't disguised. He wears no cap to hide his dark hair, and no sunglasses to hide his blue eyes. Nor is there a paper mask obscuring the delicate turn of his mouth. After a brief pause, he scrambles out of the settee and nearly tips over one of the end tables in his haste to approach the the two men waiting for him.

"Did you really—"

The large man raises both eyebrows; the soft-voiced man places a single finger up in the air, as though to say _wait_. Then, he speaks.

"Would you like us to leave?" 

The younger, dark-haired man stares at the two of them, his lips beginning to part. His eyes drift to the bundle on the bed. He watches it for a few moments before hastily glancing away. It's then he seems to come to a conclusion.

"Wait outside."

So they do.

\---

The younger man, the man with the blue eyes, doesn't approach the bed until he's alone. For another minute, at least, he watches the wrinkled blanket. Or, rather, the form beneath it, the slight, repetitive movement the only thing especially noteworthy about it. He approaches the bed. And, after hesitating, reaches to pluck at the fabric, tugging here and there until he's peeled it back to reveal the prize beneath.

A breath passes between his lips when he sets eyes on it, a sharp, silent inhale. His eyes widen, cheeks pinkening. But rather than preserve the boy's modesty, (his pants still pushed down, face still smeared with his own mess), he tugs the blanket away to reveal the rest of him, his crumpled, rain-damp hoodie, his sticky hair. His hand extends, reaching out to prod at the sliver of pale, tender stomach peeking out beneath his shirt just above his soft, pink cock. He takes a deep breath, tastes salt, and breathes it out again. Then he takes his hand away and throws the blanket from the bed. The blanket discarded, he arranges the boy, aligning his body with the mattress, straightening his limbs after untying the ropes from his wrists and ankles. The ropes join the blanket on the floor. His shoes join next. And then, after he's satisfied with his work, he gets up from the bed and stands beside it. For a while, he watches him that way. His chest rising and falling, and his own chest rising and falling. Except, it rises faster the longer he stands there. After a certain threshold has been reached, he finds himself climbing back into bed beside him. He pauses there, swallowing over and over in an attempt to moisten his throat. And then he gets up, this time to yank open the drawer beside the bed. He takes something out and shuts it. Returns. Flips Prompto over onto his stomach, and settles himself over the backs of his thighs.

He sets aside the thing in his hand and places his hands on his body. He parts his cheeks to find his hole slick and swollen, (rolls his eyes to himself,) and lets go. When he does it again, he starts this time by pressing both thumbs to the rim. He parts his cheeks at the same time as he presses inside. Cum oozes out as each thumb sinks down to the first knuckle, and then he rotates both wrists and presses his thumbs deeper inside the velvety heat of his body, all the way up to the webbing, until they can't be pushed in any further. His own asshole twitches, cock throbbing, and he pries him open, stretching him wide. His hands are smeared with cum. They shake a little. By the time he takes them from his body, he's sweating, clothes uncomfortable against his skin. But that doesn't stop him from fumbling with his fly, unsnapping the button and pulling down the zipper, or pulling his cock through the flap in his briefs. It flops against the back of a thigh, and his hips jerk. They jerk again when he takes himself in hand so he can line up, pressing inside with just about as little fanfare as the man who he knows was there before him.

The hot, pliant body beneath his seems to welcome him in. His cock sinks deep without any effort on his part. But, a moment later, he pulls out again, grappling out of his pants before resuming, kicking them onto the floor and laying himself fully over the body beneath his. His cock slips back inside, and he takes— rolling his hips, pressing his cheek and his mouth to the back of a hot neck. His hands work at the limp body, feeling over lithe musculature, over skinny thighs and a soft belly trapped against the bed. He gropes at the pecs, teasing the nipples with his thumbs, pinching and pulling until they're red and irritated. He bites the ears until they're marked and flushed, painful-looking. He fucks the hole until he's emptied himself into it, and then he goes limp, every part of them sticking together with gluey sweat.

\---

When Prompto wakes up, he's lying on his back. His eyes are heavy, sticking, difficult to open. So he can't see, immediately, the position he's in. But he can feel the of fingers in his ass, and he can feel the wetness of cum leaking out of his body— being scraped out of his body deliberately, and the breathing of the person who's doing this, light and quick, but a bit strained, as someone in the middle of some kind of emotional epiphany. He hears a frustrated sound and those fingers are plunged back inside, two at a time. Prompto jerks, his head thrown back against the bed, limp like a balloon that's lost its helium. It's a struggle to pick up his arms and move them, but he tries anyway in an attempt to rub the grit from his eyes. The movement between his legs only stops for a moment before resuming, perhaps even more forcefully than before. A groan leaves his throat, and it's a guttural sound. _That_ makes the movement stop, but still, only briefly. And when it seems like there's nothing left leaking out of him, that body positions itself over his. Prompto's eyes open at the same time as he's pressed down into the mattress, and the eyes that meet his are full of nothing but shock.

But that, too, only lasts for a moment. Something goes strange and distant in that face, and the sharp edge of a forearm comes to rest across Prompto's throat, along with most of his weight. He's pinned beneath him, half-choked, while he gouges his cock into his body. None of his jerking or struggling come to any fruition. Instead, his cock responds helpfully by leaking precum across their bellies. It's already a mess, smeared with who-knows-what, tacky and sticky-wet, and he wonders how long he's been out.

A few more times, he tries to grab at him with clumsy hands, tries to speak. Simple words, like "wait" or "stop", brief and easy to understand. He must not hear it, or he must not care, because after the third or fourth attempt he finds a tongue in his mouth in place of his words. It's impossible for him to return the kiss with his arm across his throat, so he simply submits to the teeth that pluck at his bottom lip, to the tongue that probes into the soft insides of his cheeks. Wetness smears across his mouth. But the way he sucks so softly on his lip is almost tender. When it's at its gentlest, he feels hot cum streak his insides. 

And then he's freed to twist onto his side to cough up phlegm, rub his eyes and wipe his face. 

A hand finds his back. That's all it is at first, a hand. But then a body curls around his own, and they simply lay there. He doesn't try to speak again. Doesn't try to grab for him.

Not even when the hand hovering over his middle picks across his body until it's found his still-hard cock. It's nothing fancy, just a simple jerk-off right until the end, when he's about to finish and those fingers tighten right at the base to keep him from cumming. It _feels_ like an orgasm, sort of painful, but nothing comes out. Not surprising, with how hard those fingers are clamped down around him. Prompto tries to budge his hips like he's giving a suggestion, then makes a pained animal sound when that hand begins to stroke him again; his body twists as he struggles to face the person behind him. That hurts too. But he has some mercy, and lets him move. However, when he gets close a second time, sweating, neck limp, his cheek stuck to the sheet beneath him, he takes his hand from his cock. Prompto squints and opens his watery eyes, blinking sluggishly up at the face looking down at him. Even with his dark hair a mess, sticking to his forehead and cheeks, he can still tell that he's trying not to smile, his lips pressed together, the corners of his eyes creased just so. 

Laughing at him. Asshole.

But when his hands return, he doesn't push them away. This time, four fingers and a thumb around his erection, the other hand palming his balls. Squeezing and kneading, no pattern, no intent, and probably no intention to let him cum. But his body can't help but fall for the trick, his spine bending fluidly as he rises toward that envied ending. So close, so close, so close— 

He tips Prompto onto his back again. He traps him under his body. He grinds his cock beneath the weight of his hip while Prompto, spasming, lips pulled back over his teeth, gropes at the bed beneath him. Small sounds are knocked out of his throat. The movements above him are deliberate, frantic, sort-of tender. When Prompto cums, it splatters between their stomachs. He lays that way a while, after it's over. Limp and heavy on top of him. And then, when Prompto begins wheezing, he rolls him back onto his side and puts his arms around his body. His body, which is slouched, unmoving, against the bed. It lies there, breathing. But it doesn't do anything else for a long time.


	2. Epilogue

There's a knock at the door, and shortly following, the sound of someone's voice. 

"Hey, Noct, we're gonna head home, okay?" He pretends he doesn't know whose voice it is, and folds his legs up to his chest. Noct turns his head away from him to answer.

"Yeah, go ahead! See you guys tomorrow."

He stares at a spot on Noct's shirt, where he can just see the outline of a nipple. He thinks of leaning down to mouth at it, but doesn't. Noctis must see him looking, because he reaches up and touches his face. Or maybe he just wanted to touch his face, to see what would happen. His eyes raise right as his thumb catches his lip, revealing a bit of gum, and he opens his mouth like he's about to say something.

Noct's the one who speaks first, though. 

"Hey, uh..."

"Wait," 

"You okay?"

"Not yet,"

"Prompto—"

Prompto shuts up. Noctis continues.

"You know we can't stay here. The maids will be around, uh," He twists his neck, casting for something to tell the time by. When he comes up with nothing, he goes on. "Soon."

"Yeah." He knows. Noctis knows he knows.

But, still. He dares to reach out with one arm and leave it hanging over his side; dares to nose his face beneath his jaw, tucked against his throat. It's as honest as he can allow himself to be. They lay there for a little while longer.

\---

He stares at a spot on Noct's shirt. He thinks of leaning down to mouth at it, but doesn't. Noctis must see him looking, but he doesn't move, doesn't speak, barely seems to breathe at all. Like he's waiting for something to happen. But the game is already over.

Nothing happens.


	3. Prologue

"Are you, um... sure you want to do this?" 

Noctis isn't looking at him when he speaks. It makes him nervous, but it would make him more nervous if he were looking at him.

"I'm sure, Noct. Look, I wouldn't have brought it up if I wasn't. That would be—"

Really embarrassing. It's bad enough that he admitted to it. It's bad enough that he's going to drag Ignis and Gladio into it too. What's wrong with him? Well, let's not get carried away. That would be long list, and they don't have that much time. But, yes, he knows what he wants. Maybe he isn't being honest with himself about why, and maybe he isn't emotionally intelligent enough to understand that this is self-sabotage, but what can a guy do? You don't say no to a once in a lifetime chance, even if you might regret it for the rest of your lifetime after. 

Prompto extends his leg and nudges Noctis with the tip of his toes. Noctis jerks and his face turns red, which is the sort of thing that really doesn't happen as much as it ought to. 

"You're thinking too much about it. It's just— pretend. Like a game."

"A game..." 

It becomes a sort of mantra, although no one says it out loud. 

There are a lot of things they don't say out loud.

\---

"Prompto..."

Ignis sort of sighs his name, when he says it. It makes his insides do funny things, but he's not sure if it's the good kind of funny. He squirms, standing in front of him, wringing his hands together, his face red. It's hard not to think about the things he would like Ignis to do to him, even though that's more or less expressly the opposite of what he's here to offer. 

"Just hear me out: You don't have to do anything like, uh, like _that_. You just have to help with the other stuff. The, um. Technical stuff. Planning. You know. You're good at that?" 

Ignis raises an eyebrow. Maybe he takes offense to the question mark at the end of that sentence.

"I imagine Noct's already agreed."

"I asked him first." 

Ignis doesn't say anything, but he _looks_ like he'd like to say, _of course you did._ He reaches up to adjust his glasses, passes a hand through his hair, and then turns to step into the kitchen. Prompto follows him and sits down in one of the chairs. 

"Alright, what do you need? I'll tell you if I can't help." 

"Well..." He looks away, chewing on his lip for a moment. "A car, for starters. Some sort of restraints. Uhhh... Chloroform? Do they actually use that?"

"Who's "they"?"

"You know what I mean!"

"Of course."

Prompto presses his lips together, watching Ignis as he moves around the kitchen. He pulls out the ingredients to make a cold soup for lunch and begins to prepare them. While he's chopping cucumber, he speaks up again.

"Is there anything else?"

"Well... Yeah, but I didn't think you'd want to know right now."

"You didn't think I'd agree, did you?"

"Uh,"

It seems like something he shouldn't admit to, but he doesn't know why. eventually, he offers, "No, I guess not."

For some reason, that makes Ignis smile.

Afterward, he starts jotting down a list, and when it's finished, he gives it to Ignis.

\---

Gladio is the easiest. All he has to do is ask him. He manages to sneak it in one day, when the other guys are out. Bringing it up isn't any less mortifying, especially when Gladio starts laughing like a hyena—

"It's not funny! I'm being real with you here!"

"Yeah? You are? You want me to—"

"Not just you! The other guys, too. I already asked them, and they said yes, so... I mean, well, I don't expect you to do it just because _they_ agreed, I just figured..."

"You figured what, short-stuff?"

"C'mon!"

"Alright, alright. Sure, I'm in. Why not?"

He wants to say something. Something like, _that's why I like you, big guy_ , something like, _I'm glad we're friends_ , but he just can't get the words out. Still, it's easy. And easy makes you confident. Easy is placating. It never occurs to him that they might think about why he wants this, or that they might get together and talk about it among themselves. Which is stupid, really, because they're friends with each other before they're friends with him.

\---

Of course, he's right. They do talk about it. But it would be more accurate to say that Ignis and Gladio get together to confront Noctis. Noctis, who was the first to agree; Noctis, who clearly knows the most about why Prompto has decided to ask for this. But when they try to ask _him_ , he only shakes his head, lips pressed tight, cheeks red. Maybe he's more afraid of revealing something about himself if he says anything (the worst possible outcome), but they're still left stymied.

"Noct, you know this could go badly."

"What? It's just you guys, you know how to pull your punches."

"That isn't what I meant."

And that's when things get terse and awkward. That's when the elephant in the room starts stomping around. Maybe Noct is too much of a dumbass to have caught on, but the two of them have seen it. There's a certain way that Prompto behaves around the young prince. It isn't envy that colors his actions. No, it's something much brittler than that. Something that could easily be broken if you jostled it around too much.

And then there's Noctis. Of course he'd say yes to a game of cat and mouse when he already owns the toy they're using as a substitute. 

But just because he's acting, doesn't that mean anything? Does he really want what he's chasing? Or does he just want to bat it around a bit? And what about Prompto, what does he want? Does he know? Noctis would say he does, but he's not budging. He keeps his mouth shut tight. He lets the elephant trample through the apartment a while until it tires itself out. Ignis abandons the conversation to make dinner, and Gladio sits beside him on the couch, pretending to watch TV, but watching him instead. It's like that for most of the rest of the night until dinner is finished. Ignis serves them on a tray he sets on the coffee table. After he's brought the drinks, he joins them, and Gladio flips stations until he finds a movie they can watch. 

Noctis doesn't tell them what Prompto did when he first came to him. Or how he sounded sort of desperate on that day when he said, "I just want something to happen—"

He doesn't think he was talking about life in the city.

\---

A week before the day that was chosen, they hang out. It's a normal day, by all appearances. It could be any other day, by all appearances. Gladio stops by. Ignis makes lunch. Prompto stays too late, and Noctis says, _Whatever, just spend the night_ , and he does. A movie goes on too long, and sitting side-by-side on the couch, they fall asleep together. When Noctis wakes up, he finds they've sunk down so that their arms are touching all along the sides, hands sort of overlapped. Prompto's skin is very warm. It makes him itchy.

When Prompto wakes up, he straightens out and stretches his arms over his head. Pops his back and rolls his shoulders while Noctis watches. Turns and smiles at him, after his hands have fallen back to the couch, his eyes shining in the dark like pennies. He doesn't seem to notice how close they are, but it feels like a lie, and it sort of makes him want to reach out and do something he knows he would regret for the rest of his life. Something terrible.

But he doesn't. 

Not yet.


End file.
